not. She either said: “Yes, I’d love to”, or she said “No” and thanked you for calling. Enough “sort of”. Did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And? And?’
‘No reply.’
‘Try again?’
‘No reply.’
‘Will you try again?’
‘What do you know about her?’
‘Ri-chard! She’s a friend of a friend of Catherine’s. I met her once before. I am sure – in fact, there can be no question about it – she’ll be sitting in all evening willing the phone to ring with your dulcet tones offering dinner chez Ricardo. So, stop skirting the issue. You left together and then what?’
‘I took her home. Fancy a drink? My shout.’
Bob watched his friend as he dressed and preened.
Good Lord, he’s gone! A goner! Not that he knows it yet. Goodbye, Old Mister Pump-and-Dump, Sir Love ’Em and Leave ’Em. Or Rather Lord Leave ’Em Before You Fallinlovewith ’Em. I don’t believe it!
Bob felt a wave of fondness and happiness for his pal so he slapped his back and squeezed his delts.
‘Your shout. Just a swift half, mind. Promised Catherine that we’d go to the flicks.’
Their swift half turned into a leisurely two-pinter. Bob decided not to pry further. This one needed nurturing. Instead, they indulged in a trip down Memory Lane, recalling wild times shared at college, remembering, try for try, every rugby game that they’d played together, remarking on how far they had both come since moving to London to make their respective marks on the world of Law and Architecture. Bob talked about Catherine, their next holiday to Northern Portugal, the extension to the house, the current discord over the baby issue – her desire, his reluctance. (‘But me, a dad? I mean, I’m not old enough! I’ve got a dad of my own still! Catherine’s broody though, very. I’ve even checked her Pill packets recently to make sure she’s not forgetting accidentally-on-purpose.’)
Richard was simultaneously envious of Bob’s security, his constant and loving relationship, and yet also thankful that he had no one but himself to think of. Poor old Bob, soon to be dragged off to a schmaltzy American weepy that he’d never go to see out of choice. But there again, didn’t he seem to beam with affection when, on the way to the pub, he’d made a detour to buy tissues and wine gums?
‘Hey, look at the time! I’ve got fifteen minutes to get to Leicester Square! Great to see you, Richie.’ (Don’t call me that.) ‘Still on for squash on Sunday morning? Great. You going to call her? You are going to call her! Must dash. Later!’
‘Later! Love to Catherine. Don’t sob too hard!’
Bob left the pub backwards, making a telephone gesture as he did so. Richard raised his pint and smiled. A minute or two later he left it, half-full, and caught a cab home to Notting Hill.
0181 348 6523.
‘Hullo?’
‘Sally! Richard here.’
‘Hu-low!’
‘How are you?’
‘Well! Yes! You?’
‘Mmm!’
A pause verging on embarrassing silence.
‘Sally, would you like to have dinner with me? Friday night? At mine?’
‘That would be nice. Why, yes. Thank you. Address? Time? Lovely!’
‘Friday, then.’ And wear those lovely little knickers.
‘Friday.’ And make sure the sheets are fresh.
SIX
With the mock-Georgian folly taking good form on the drawing-board, Richard felt justified, for the first time in his working career, in packing up at lunch-time and taking the afternoon off.
Goodbye Sandra, goodbye Mary. Goodbye, Mr Stonehill. Goodbye navy suit and calf muscles. Sandra plunged herself into a chasm of pessimism rescued only by a chocolate éclair tactfully provided by Mary. No, Mary, he’s far too fit ever to need a doctor. It can only mean a woman.
What a delight, thought Richard, to shop at Sainsbury’s on a weekday afternoon. What a revelation it was that a supermarket could look like that. No obstacle course of trollies and baskets, plenty of everything left, no people-snake at the check-out. No men, realized Richard.
As he trollied his way to the cereals, he thought what a mercy it was that he was unmarried. He pondered how it was that shopping for groceries became such a trial for the married man. On your soap box, Richard, away you go.
Take any ordinary Saturday – tomorrow for instance – they’ll be here in force, frantic and bewildered, chained to The List. It says baked beans so Married Man stops by the baked beans, and regards them. Look at the list, look at the produce, look at the list. Move on a couple of paces, walk backwards knocking over a child before finally plucking two tins of said beans. Place them carefully in the trolley but manage somehow to bruise the avocados in the process. Wipe brow, unscrunch List and go in search of Free-range Eggs. Buy Farm Fresh instead – they’re cheaper after all. Little does M.M. realize that they will ultimately work out twice as dear when Wife sees them, bins them and hollers: ‘FREE-RANGE!’ Don’t they know that there’s a reason for lard, crinkle cut chips, white sliced bread and bumper-pack beer not to be on The List?
Richard Stonehill, I think you will find that a packet of SuperNoodles lurks behind that box of lo-fat, lo-salt, sugar free lite-bran (organic) which you have strategically positioned in your trolley.
It is at the check-out, Richard rued whilst searching for an eco-friendly bleach, where M.M. comes most unstuck. You can see them gaze in wonder at the well-spaced items processing along on the conveyor belt of the female shopper (or that of Mr Stonehill). The contents of M.M.’s trolley are in a veritable profiterole pile as they head towards the black looks of the check-out assistant. M.M. wonders how women know instinctively how to pack – is it passed down from Mother to Daughter?
More to the point, why on earth does M.M. insist on packing eggs and pastry cases, watercress and tomatoes first; soap powder, bottles and tins last? What happens to men when they marry? Richard pondered as he sashayed past the beverages and preserves (choosing Broken Orange Pekoe and Damson Extra respectively). Do these married men – erstwhile bachelors after all – lose all notion, every shred of common sense as to what constitutes a well-stocked larder? Why and how does this innate and irrational fear of supermarkets suddenly develop?
Is there a cure?
Divorce?
Richard was relieved, on that decadent
